So I’m riding the number 64 tram home from work, just like I do any other day when I’m not cycle-commuting. It’s the end of the week and okay, it hasn’t been the best day ever, but it’s cool… and now it’s time to go home.

I’ve been on the tram for no more than five minutes when it starts breaking quite jerkily. There’s not much to grab hold of coz the tram is packed – every seat taken and those of us standing are just a few degrees off feeling like sardines. Skin touching if you move a smidge to the left or right.

Within microseconds I’m flying, almost horizontally really. So is every other standing passenger. The tram driver it seems, failed to notice a red light and at the last possible moment slammed on the brakes. The resulting game of passenger dominos roughly throws us all a couple of meters forwards.

Nothing I attempt to hold onto works out. A multitude of thoughts race by… oh no… what’s happening… I can’t stop myself from falling… is this going to hurt… there are people falling on top of me… there’s nothing to grab hold of… oh no…

It is only when the tram stops lurching that we mid-flight passengers land ungracefully and mostly on top of each other. My phone, which had been in my hand, is now on the floor and in pieces. Luckily not too many pieces and it can be put back together. When I manage to stand upright, I’m in a completely different section of the tram.

The haze of shock sets in.

The driver does not apologise. Does not check to see if anyone is okay. The tram keeps moving but much more carefully now.

I am not okay. I’m not sure if anyone else is hurt, but I’m too dazed and angry to find out. My already manky shoulder (luckily I have a physio appointment next Tuesday) is throbbing. My neck and lower back are sore.

I’m asked if I’m okay by a woman and her family. Passengers with seats, lucky things. The woman standing next to me and I are both having separate conversations about what just happened – she, on her phone (she’d helped collect the pieces of mine), and I with the family. The woman says that from her window seat she saw the red light, and how he didn’t even try to break until the last moment. It’s not as though a red light happens without warning.

Indeed.

They get off the tram a couple more stops down and I gratefully take one of their seats. I know I’m going to report this and ah… I can see the tram number, an individual identifier. I check the time… yeah, it happened just after 6pm. Along with the route number that should be enough information for the complaint I’m going to make.

Everything feels a little surreal. I make it to my stop and walk home unevenly. I feel the strain in my body – that always happens in a fall because our muscles futilely brace for impact.

It’s done. I’ve called Yarra Trams and explained very calmly. Yes please, I’d like someone to call me back and tell me what happened as a result of my complaint. No, I’m not sure if I’ll need medical treatment for the pain in my body, I’ll let you know. Okay, thanks for the reference number, I’ll write it down.

Done. And yet not.

Seems that trauma leaves physiological traces not just in the brain but also in the body. Oh…

I remember a little now. Yeah, this is what it was like. I can never remember properly afterwards, the same way you can’t quite recall how painful it was when you broke your arm. You know it wasn’t good, but the details escape you.

Until something happens to open the floodgates. I’m teary. But I don’t realise this, until I’ve been sitting in the dark for about three hours. Tears yes… and fury that looks like fear. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t done anything. Oh right, that disassociation thing… I stop feeling normal at all.

But I am okay. I know that. I know I didn’t die, I didn’t hit my head. I am not seriously injured, but it was close. Another half a meter and I might’ve hit my head on something upright and made of metal. But I am safe now.

And yet I start to hate everything. My body leads the revolt with memories of how it used to respond. Ah… the after-burn of PTSD thanks very much.

Mostly, my mind is not engaged at all in what’s going on. There’s so many reactions and responses going on. Things that make me wary of loud noises. Things that make me move very slowly. Things that keep the tears coming even though there’s nothing to cry about, really.

But it doesn’t stop. I take some homeopathic Emergency Essence (designed for treating shock). Actually I take several times the dose. And I head out on my bike to double check that the world isn’t still trying to kill me.

It’s late, but I find food and I wander around in an attempt to recalibrate my mind. But even once I’m back home eating my Satay Chicken Dinner Box, I’m not okay. See, these things always take time. More Emergency Essence before bed.

Sleep was fragmented and awful at best. And today I am all aches and pains with a side dish of trembling like a leaf.

It shouldn’t be that hard. Yes, the tram driver was a dickhead and I’ve done all I can in that regard. And I am okay, really.

And it’s been almost a year since the worst of my PTSD symptoms vamoosed. Yet a small and relatively harmless incident like this breathes life into the trace elements of my trauma response.

Luckily, I live with a yoga teacher and I hear she’s kinda okay at sorting out physical aches and pains. I’ll find some time for all of that later. Right now I have to go and do family stuff for my sister’s birthday. I’m bringing the cake. And there will be niece cuddles.

In the treacly syrup of therapy sessions that I waded through last year (and earlier this year), I’ve endlessly tormented myself with a clutch of seemingly unanswerable questions.

Why did this (assault/PTSD/depression) happen? To me? Why did I have such a strong reaction to it given it was a single incident? Why was I having such a hard time “getting over it”?

I had no answers. My therapist suggested that if it was important, we could address it later on. That there might not be any ready answers and in fact, worrying about the why just then was counter-productive to getting on with the healing process.

She was right. So we moved on to other topics, but I did keep returning to them for regular self-flagellation. I should have known better, right? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

We want answers. When something unthinkable happens, especially when it’s personal… we want to draw a logical line from point A to point B and say Ah!!! So THAT’S why!

I suspect that in our hurry to understand why, we create reasons. And then, people tell us things like: Everything happens for a reason. Or… Something positive has to come out of this.

People might even suggest a reason or two of their own. Good people. Well meaning people.

But it doesn’t help.

Rarely will someone say those kind of things about positive life experiences. We don’t ponder (not too much anyway) why we met our life partner, or why we get to travel, or win the lottery…

And to be honest, I don’t know if everything that happens in this world (and to us personally), has to have a reason. Maybe what we think of as “the reason” is not even the real reason. If there is a reason beyond general randomness!

After all, the universe has the capacity for randomness. So perhaps that’s the real reason that seemingly senseless things happen. Perhaps they justare senseless.

Can we live with that? Sometimes, and then sometimes not…

Over at Michele’s blog, we considered the idea that perhaps the reason doesn’t matter in the end (read the comments).

Perhaps.

Although there might not be exact reasons, there’s definitely contributing factors to certain events. Influences that led you to be where you are. Again, there’s no real proof that these actually cause an event to occur. Or not.

Whatever.

Lately, I’ve been considering my pre-disposition towards abusive relationships. All kinds. Friendships, lovers, family. And I do think that pre-disposition was a contributing factor that led to me being involved with a physically violent person.

Basically, it seems I’ve put up with people treating me poorly for many years. [Note: not that I’m perfect, or that I’ve never treated other people badly. I’m not saying that.]

Which is related of course, to poor self-image/self-worth. Similarly, the next level of waging war – in addition to beating ourselves up – is to extend the war to others. And this shows up as abusive behaviour between people. Often it goes both ways. Starting within our family, of course.

Parent to child. Sibling to sibling. Child to friends. Friends to child. And so on. The circle continues to widen.

Much of my young life featured what I’ll call “low-level” abuse on an emotional and physical level. I used to think it was normal for people to be nice to me one day, and horribly upset with me the next as a repeating cycle. There was the bitching, the withholding of affection, the physical violence, regular screaming matches, being given the silent treatment for months on end and bring threatened with abandonment.

To be clear, its not that I think any of the above is particularly unusual. Actually, I think it’s the status quo in a lot of families, and almost accepted as normal even.

But it’s not normal. This is abuse.

We get used to treating other people badly, and being treated badly ourselves. Of course, there are more extreme situations, with children being molested or otherwise mistreated. But the more casual forms of abuse are important, too. Perhaps because they’re so very ubiquitous.

Possibly, growing up like that doesn’t bother everyone. At a minimum the impact would be the way people mimic abuse that was visited on them – they deal what they were dealt.

But for those who are extra-sensitive or vulnerable or otherwise naive (like I was), it can be a disaster.

When I consider the relationships and friendships I’ve had/have, it’s clear to me that I seek peaceful and harmonious relations with others. Well, that’s what I want, but it’s not always what I’ve been attracted to. Certainly for the most part, it’s not what I’ve attracted into my life. Until recent times, anyway.

Maybe that’s one of the great learnings for me – seeing just how much abuse I allow myself to put up with (not to mention the abuse I’ve dished out in return), and why. It wasn’t a one-shot deal though. It’s something I’ve continued to learn about, especially this year.

For example…

I was trying to be friends with someone who didn’t really want to reciprocate. Like a puppy dog, I wanted to be liked. I bent over backwards to be nice to this person. I gave them things. I spent money I didn’t have to do things for them.

In return, there seemed to be a friendship developing. Even if it was uneven. Even if, from time to time, this person decided to take offense at something I’d said and chuck a temper tantrum about it, way out of proportion to the actual event. Even if they gave me the silent treatment from time to time. They still encouraged me to rely on them. And so I did.

Because I wanted to be friends, exhausting as it was.

This was an abusive friendship – both ways. But I stuck it out until in the end, after we’d both torn shreds off each other. And by then it was clear: I was barking up the wrong tree. This situation came about because really, that person never wanted to be my friend in the first place.

If only I could’ve seen the other person’s abusive reactions for what they were – a cryptic message to back the hell off! But because I was used to accepting abusive behaviour, I didn’t.

This time, the end result wasn’t a physical assault. But it was an assault on my heart and self-esteem.

And I think (and hope) it was the final wake up call.

I don’t want to be abusive towards others, and as a yogini I’m working towards stripping these tendencies away from how I move about in this world.

Equally, I don’t want to be friends with people who treat me badly.

Just maybe then, that is the reason why? In the end. Or perhaps it’s just a by-product? Either way, it’s a good piece of knowledge to have on this journey.

A little while back I featured some posts on healing depression. BUT… I’d also been meaning to add a sign post or two to some other awesome mental health-type content.

This time, stuff on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) – the other bookend to depression that’s made a very unpleasant Svasti-sandwich for several years now.

Before my own encounter with trauma, I think I’d probably dealt with low-level depression. But never in my life had I experienced PTSD.

In fact, I had no idea how easy it was for people to become traumatised. Well, when I say ‘easy’ I guess I mean… trauma comes in all shapes and sizes.

It’s not just a by-product of being in a war zone or natural disaster.

There’s a lot of people out there in blog-landia dealing with PTSD and the paths they travelled to win the <sarcasm>lucky door prize</sarcasm> are incredibly diverse.

Essentially, PTSD can be acquired through any experience where you’re convinced you’re going to die, or by witnessing something unspeakably horrific.

It can be quick and once-off, or sustained and ongoing (causing chronic and complex PTSD). There’s no easy answers to ‘Why me’?

I gave myself a hard time for ages, thinking I had no right to be traumatised from my one night of terror and assault. But the reality is there’s no rules around how you get it or what causes it.

Just as there’s no rules around how you deal with it, the right treatment and ultimately, being healed and free of that nasty, life-sucking condition.

So, without further ado, let me introduce…

Heal My PTSD

Catching up on a few bits and pieces, I happened to notice Michele Rosenthal (formerly of Parasites of the Mind blog) has moved blog addresses to Heal My PTSD, LLC(not sure what the LLC bit stands for).

And about this new website I wanted to say – go check it out.

If you deal with PTSD personally or know anyone who does, it’s an excellent resource site, and it’s newsy, positive and no-holds-barred.

Michele has my respect, having beaten her PTSD after living with the condition undiagnosed for 25 years!

I *think* I’m probably 80% of the way there… maybe more… but the only way to ever really know it’s all over is afterwards. Once you’ve had a couple of years of no symptoms, no episodes etc.

So I wait and I watch. And read blogs like Michele’s!

Practical PTSD

The other cool PTSD content I wanted to draw attention to is a fellow Aussie and fab-tastic Twitter matey, Catatonic Kid.

The (currently globetrotting) Cat’s been writing a series she’s called “Practical PTSD”.

It’s kinda PTSD-for-Dummies – descriptive content from the viewpoint of someone living with the condition.

Which hopefully, will help friends/family of those in the thrall of PTSD to understand a little more. Although, of course, it’s challenging to ever really get what another person is going through.

At the time this post went to press (haha!!) CK had written five instalments (I’m sure there’ll be more some time):

No matter how you cut it, there’s always more ways to slice and dice anything. You can take the tiniest sliver, and if you have the right tools, cut it up again and again. You can make shavings of slivers and get all microscopic about it.

What’s that got to do with anything? Umm, nothing. And everything.

It’s just that y’know, measurement is highly relative. So is progress.

Where do we really ever get to, other than right where we are at any given moment? We’re just where we’re at, period.

The wanting of other things, that’s where we get ourselves into trouble. Wanting to be somewhere or someone else, or another version of yourself – thinner, wiser, funnier, smarter and so on. We want to be healed. We can’t forget the past. We reminisce of happier times. Want to be on holidays again, go back to places we’ve been.

Anywhere but here.

Or, we think of where we want to get to – being in love with someone wonderful, being a parent, healthy and whole, nicer teeth, earning big money. Or, just more simply… we look towards a place where we’ll be really happy.

Trying to just live in the here and now is difficult. Western culture is set up to either think of the past or look to the future. There’s really not much here and now in our lives at all.

Sitting on a tram surrounded by strangers, most people are thinking about getting away from such close proximity (BTW, did you hear Melbourne is now Australia’s Swine Flu capital?). At work, we’re bored or annoyed or looking forward to lunch or going home or socialising after work.

We’re rarely living inthe moment, but it can happen: riding a push bike consciously, getting a massive fright, meditation, having a really intense meeting, seeing an amazing live band or dance performance… these are just some examples.

When it happens, for seconds or minutes (if we’re lucky), we feel intensely alive.

Some people get hooked on that, and then get into adrenaline-based activities. Although, it then becomes less about being in the moment, and more about the ‘rush’ we feel afterwards. And looking forward to the next time.

During the worst of my PTSD, where it wasn’t so much ‘episodes’ – more just one long waking nightmare, day in, day out… I wished away much of my life.

Truly, I believed it was possible to wait out my trauma. I thought I’d get better over time, like healing a broken bone – sure it hurts for ages, but eventually it gets better.

And while I waited, I shut down the rest of my life. Just sat there, waiting. But never in the moment. I was too busy thinking about that unspecified time in the future when I’d be okay again.

Never worked out that way of course. Turns out the source of a lot of my pain was about avoiding. Didn’t want to be in the moment at the time (quite understandably) and didn’t want to know about it afterwards, either.

Thing is, to start to move forward and just to begin the healing process, that’s exactly what I had to do – get very present and very real with the pain, the terror and all of the rammifications.

Its the polar opposite of our standard modus operandi: dropping out of reality.

No wonder healing feels so scary and hard at times!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wrote a draft of this a little while back, but Brooks’ recent post reminded me it was there, casually sitting in one of my writing files. So I looked it up and thought… yeah, time to come out…

**Note: If you’re in any way feeling fragile or likely to be triggered by reading of extreme violence and/or viewing VERY graphic photos, it’s best not to click on the above link**

Judith recently left a comment on one of my earlier posts so I checked out the Willothewisp blog that she and her wife run, (Prop 8 supporters take note: gay marriage has been legal in the Netherlands for years!) and from there found the link to her horrific, utterly terrifying story of sexual and physical assault.

As if the assault wasn’t bad enough, Judith went through months and months of recovery, surgery and rehabilitation that sounds like ongoing torture. Add living with post-traumatic stress, depression and the inability to move or talk for the longest time… and we’re talking about a truly serious survivor.

It’s a rough read, very emotional and heartbreaking. Once again – don’t read her story unless you’re in a stable frame of mind.

There’s ten chapters to date, and the story isn’t fully told yet. And it’s taken me a while to make my way through each one.

Judith’s lucky to be alive, although given what she went through I’m sure she didn’t feel lucky for the longest time. Her body is scarred, she lost her hearing, and she had to learn to speak and walk again.

Any one of these issues would be tough enough to handle. But Judith has triumphed through them all.

More than that – she’s married and she and her wife have three children. She has made a life despite what she’s been through. Through her words, I sense a very determined lady!

I can’t wait to read more and see how it was she made it to the life she now leads. I’m sure the past is still not 100% buried, but she is not cowering in the corner away from the world.

For years I was totally hopeless with balancing asana in my yoga practice. I’d wobble, fall over and enviously look at others, wondering why I couldn’t do what they did.

Then some time ago, wobbling through Natarajasana (dancer pose) I had a realisation that changed everything… You’re not just trying to balance on one leg – you need to stabilise yourself by engaging every little piece of your body!

Oh! Seems so obvious in retrospect, but for some reason I really didn’t get that, until I did.

In turn, this taught me something important about life, in a very practical (not theoretical) way: Nothing in our lives is disconnected. Nothing.

Funnily enough, I’ve had this realisation many times – during meditation, from reading books and listening to dozens of lectures on the matter too.

Seems we don’t get it, until we do. Nothing is disconnected.

We’ve come a long long way together
Through the hard times and the good
I have to celebrate you baby
I have to praise you like I should
~Fat Boy Slim

For those of us consciously trying to heal our inner wounds, with our fragmented selves desperately trying to keep up… we’re often so busy focusing on the trauma, it’s hard to see the bigger picture.

Just for now though, I’m taking a bird’s eye view, trying to see the lay of the land, so to speak.

Why? Well, today marks the first birthday of Svasti! Hip-hip-hooray!!

To quote my last post, this blog grew as something of an impulse – a very strong desire to save my sanity. A much needed space to expel the violence, sadness and struggles I’d been dealing with all alone. Screaming into cyberspace seemed like a good idea, and I was right.

Blogging I’ve found… is sort of like travelling the world with an entirely different perspective. Instead of seeing museums and temples and the like, I find myself surveying the inner workings of people’s minds all ‘round the world.

In the process, I’ve made a lot of friends and learned plenty about myself and others.

Such as: There’s no simple cure to PTSD or depression. And there’s peaks and troughs to recovery. The peaks make me feel like I’m finally getting somewhere. The troughs make me feel like checking out of Hotel de Life.

Healing is not a one-shot deal. There’s no magic pill to solve all my ills, or anyone else’s. But the more we express, the better it gets (in the long run, if not straight away).

And given human nature is how it is, we find resonance in each other’s words. We discover we aren’t alone. We’re all connected. So, what we write can benefit others. That’s a good thing!

But I’ve also learned the assault I started writing about was only a small part of the story – a kind of bookend really, to a certain era of my life. An era I’m learning I need to write about. That’s all connected, too.

In the last twelve months I’ve: started therapy, quit a stable (but soul-destroying job), spent five weeks in spiritual retreat, conquered the worst of my PTSD symptoms (although I’m far from symptom-free), gained and lost another job, had a second niece arrive, found new friends, started yoga teacher training and struggled with a very morbid attack of depression. And I’ve spent the better part of this year unemployed, surviving on a fraction of what I usually earn.

Seems I’ve been shedding one skin after the other, kinda like an onion and with just as many tears.

But none of it is disconnected, I’m convinced of that. Where we’re at is a result of where we’ve been. There’s no plot device that led me down this path.

Gotta say this much – it’s a glorious place from which to find my balance in life, and I know I can do it.

After my rather long comment on BlissChick’s post, I wrote up part 1’s post (which was kinda hard to write)… but she also emailed me some other (rather confronting) questions:

In psychological circles it is said that abusers are not born but MADE. So I wonder (not knowing anything about your home life as a child) what kind of environment your parents created in order to turn your brother into an abuser?

I don’t remember much of my early years, just tiny splotches. But I do remember my brother never liking me. It seemed to start when we were fairly young (he’s only two years older than me).

Perhaps this will sound new age-y, but I have this theory:

My brother was the next little being to inhabit my mother’s womb after the grief, illness, anger, sadness, stress and loss she experienced in giving up her first son. Never having had permission to deal with it openly, I believe much of her pain was simply absorbed.

I’ve had my own experiences with the body internalising pain… I know this is what happens.

And what must it have been like, for my mother? Being pregnant again after that first time? She once said when we were little, she was always afraid someone would come and take us away… this fear must have affected each of the three kids that followed, right?

Also, my brother was part of a soccer club from a very young age, and in the 70’s/early 80’s, Australian soccer clubs were dominated by masochistic men and boys. He grew up as part of that culture, every weekend for years.

My parents I believe were just… too involved in their own lives and pain. They didn’t see what was happening in front of them. They weren’t equipped to handle it. They’d never been given the appropriate tools themselves.

Do you have to experience such things for yourself in order to recognise what’s going on?

I don’t know if something else happened to my brother or not. If it did, I don’t believe it happened in my parents’ home.

I also wonder why they enabled his abuse of you? That is what they did — they enabled.

These two sentences were very difficult for me to read. I truly believe they were unaware.

When I’d go to my parents and say ‘my brother hit me’, how could they work out how bad it was? That it wasn’t the usual sibling rough-housing (it never happened with them in sight)?

How could I understand what to tell them? What could I measure it against to give them some context?

People will claim they had no idea what was going on under their own roofs, but 99% of the time, they are lying (perhaps not even consciously so). The other 1% you have to ask HOW and WHY they did not know? WHY were they so utterly self-involved that they did not see your pain?

Because it was their job to love and protect you.

A little voice I don’t want to know about whispers in my ear… it was ongoing, though. It wasn’t infrequent. So why didn’t they stop him?

My dad was the youngest child with two older sisters and I don’t believe he’s ever hit a woman. My mum has a younger brother and I don’t believe he hit her either. Why then, was my brother allowed to continue to target and bully me?

I don’t know! It’s a question that pains my heart, and I have no answers. It makes a part of me feel raw and hungry and empty… it makes my lips purse up and I want to just stop thinking for a while.

How could they put up with my complaints of constantly being used as a pummelling bag? Then, it’s not just that he was physically abusive. But verbally too, and viciously cruel at every opportunity.

But, I was off with the pixies a lot. Did I just withdraw? Did I make it harder for them to know the truth? Should they have known anyway?

Thinking about this stuff, it makes me squirm. Does it matter if I ever know, or not? I kinda think right now it doesn’t matter any more… as long as I’m not pretending, and as long as I’m admitting to myself, that it wasn’t okay.

Whenever I see or hear about a woman who has chosen a partner who is or becomes abusive of her, I know (know know deep in my heart) that she came out of her childhood deeply wounded. Women who are raised in healthy households with healthy self esteem do not pick bad partners. They have an innate radar and can sense abusiveness in even the most charming people.

Today I read a post by a blogger I don’t know, via one of my blogger friends. And it really made me think. How do children get to the point where they taunt another person so mercilessly? She makes a good point – it’s because nobody stops them. They get away with it because they can.

And yes, I know my self-esteem was in tatters by the time I left home, aged nineteen. Through my own actions as well as those of others. But I think you’re right – had I been given a stronger sense of self-worth and self-love, I don’t think I would have let my first boyfriend treat me as he did. Nor do I think I would have ended up working in the sex trade.

Or, allowing myself, as you say, to pick bad partners. One after the other. To this day, I still can’t sense abusiveness in others. But those who are weird and wounded like me, sure, I can pick them a mile off…

Then again, my sister didn’t go through any of this. What was it in me that meant this was my path? My sister saw how our brother treated me and although he was mean to her, he never hit her. Just teased her all the time about her weight, resulting in a wounded self-esteem. But then, that’s bad enough, isn’t it?

Eventually wounded women who struggle and fight and put themselves back together again have even better radar. So do not fear. The work you do now most assuredly will lead you to a loving relationship some day.

I really, truly hope you’re right. I do. I get it when you say this is going to take a while. So far, it’s taken all of my life. If ever I can repair that abuse-o-meter radar, I know it’ll be good!

Of course, until then I know I need to keep moving. Like my therapist said, I can’t let the habits of my PTSD and depression, continue to lead the way.

So I have to try and reach out, to trust. And accept I guess, I might still get it wrong for some time to come.

Tried to describe PTSD to a friend, recently. What it’s been like for me, and why my recent encounters with EMDR are so miraculous, given the world I’ve been inhabiting.

To illustrate, I spoke of the creations of Wes Craven’s classic schlock horror, Nightmare on Elm Street. Y’know, how those kids in the movie tried really, really hard to stay awake and out of that nightmare zone.

But inevitably they had to fall asleep. Though, they never saw sleep coming. Didn’t know they were in the dream until, well, they were in it. The slippery divide between those worlds was translucently thin, sliding over the boundaries without realising it.

And Freddie was always waiting for them. Scaring the crap out of them. In some cases, scaring them to death.

Throughout most of that movie, they didn’t feel like they were in control at all.

This is the insidiousness of PTSD. And I believe, it’s partly why it’s so traumatic.

It’s not just the memories being on repeat; it’s that you seemingly can’t control when they appear or how it impacts you. Triggers can be both known and unknown. The unknown ones are the real kickers.

And the trauma is caused by having life as you know it continuously swamped by this broken record, stuck on repeat at random intervals.

The memory itself, was terrifying in the first place. Of course. But repeated over and over… it can stop your heart. Makes dying feel like a much simpler solution. A rest. A break.

But then, it’s not just the flashbacks, though that’s a hefty chunk of the issue. When PTSD arrives, fear and anxiety are the bitter after-taste in your mouth you can’t quite identify. Always there, flaring up when it’s least welcome.

The trickiest thing to understand from the outside looking in… someone who looks perfectly ‘normal’, can, at a moment’s notice become a complete wreck. Can suddenly act like a different person. And mostly, they can’t possibly explain what’s happening to them.

I lost a friend that way, once. She wasn’t exactly a very good friend. But one of the few I did have here in Melbourne at the time.

We were walking to a cinema, and were suddenly walking in very crowded area. There was some sort of festival on, and it became a flesh press… to move from point A to point B, it was necessary to slowly force your way through the crowd physically.

Which completely freaked me out. From my friend’s perspective, I totally over-reacted to what was going on. I had what I can now recognise as classic panic attack symptoms.

But this was only months after I was assaulted, and I had no idea what was happening to me.

My stress levels didn’t evaporate, and when we finally got into the movie, once again I over-reacted to what was going on. Which was (one of my pet hates) people talking in the cinema. It was just previews, which I usually tolerate. But this time I was really angry and aggressive towards the young dorky boys in front of me. Completely out of character for me.

Apparently the combination of these two events was enough for my friend to decide she couldn’t cope with hanging out with me any longer. I was too ‘unpredictable’ for her.

No one likes rejection, and I tried to explain to her what happened (as best I could) but she wasn’t buying it. Which, actually, was kinda fine with me, given she was one of those people who would complain about her other friends to the person she was hanging out with.

But it’s tough… like those kids in Nightmare on Elm Street, it’s impossible to put a stop to PTSD while you’re enclosed in its iron grip. And really hard to properly communicate what’s going on to other people. Especially non-empathetic people.

And it’s a process, waking up to what’s happening to you… to know your triggers (if you ever can know them all), and then… to finally feel like you’ve got a shot at beating it.

PTSD is after all, a kind of warped safety mechanism of the mind, trying to protect the person who’s been traumatised. The twist is, it actually traps them inside a fragile ‘safe space’. Makes them feel like the ongoing trauma is being done to them by someone or something else. Mostly, because the trauma was inflicted by someone else/an external experience.

But its not. PTSD is a defective thought process. It’s broken. It’s stuck on repeat, and in fact, its your own mind torturing you. A tough one to accept, because the flashbacks are so all-encompassing and terrible. It doesn’t ever feel like its something your own mind is creating.

However, it is possible to recover from. That’s what I’m discovering.

For my next trick, I need to let go of the vestiges of this thing. Apparently, I can start getting used to living in a world that doesn’t suddenly shift into a nightmare any more.

I can’t tell you how amazing the idea of that seems to me right now. And I’m slowly trying to trust that it might actually be the truth…

~Svasti

P.S. Note: This is not what I’m experiencing right now. I’m not struggling with PTSD once again. I just felt moved to write this explanation because I realised… there’s a lot of people who really don’t get what’s going on for someone in the grip of this very tricky mind game…

Tenuous acknowledgement it all sorta belongs together is, I believe, what creates the coordinated forward momentum.

They’re only words, you know. Words I choke on, sure. But still just words and I’m the one who gives them meaning, and power.

Yet, what if that ‘meaning-making mechanism’ has fallen so deeply down the well, there’s nary a hope of recovery?

This is how it all becomes intrinsic… sandcastles of sadness, salty tears and the slow wearing down of safe ground… we’re accustomed to believe it’s all inter-related and meaningful.

Stepping off the balcony of that derelict world should be easy. Right?

Sometimes the simplest things are worst.

Imagine wrapping yourself in protection with whatever’s on hand? Mightn’t actually help you at all, but then… it was there at the time. When you needed something, anything, between you and what just happened.

All part of the shock and fright.

Should just be on the periphery but, instead, sheaths you with an invisible force field. Nothing enters or leaves. How else can you stay afloat? Survive?

But time comes, eventually, to dismantle such ramshackle efforts. Create proper foundations, ones that won’t tremble and shiver under the slightest of pressures, real or imagined.

No, it’s not easy. Insinuated as they are, amongst everyday things.

And when you try… when you do… that’s what the heavies are for. Big hitters, they don’t play nice and there’s tricks to be learnt, to slip past and out the door.

They’re just words and letters… three little letters, too…

And then, I get it.

Not saying, is much tougher than speaking freely. Really is. At least, in theory.

Finally, courage arises, and even then, those letters get stuck. They’re literally what I’ve been choking on, after all.

When, finally, they come… its ripping-off-the-band-aid-shock. But then it hurts more again, later. Much more. Time to rest and retreat and regroup.

Afterwards, standing up seems difficult. Sitting is easier, even in a very public place. Just sitting for a while. For as long as I need.

It’d help a lot if I could just puke, perhaps.

Once again, sleep has the answers for now. Just hopefully not crashing out on the couch!

There’s nothing easy about this, the deconstruction of fear. Fillet-o-fish gutted, it’s a clearer place to be, but rather hollow and sad, for now.